Not Without You
by KendylGirl
Summary: John disappears, and Sherlock is desperate to find him. The solution lies, as it always does, in what each finds in the other.
1. Chapter 1

The rip of hair at his temples is finally making its way through to his nervous system. Sherlock's knuckles whiten under the strain of warring with his own curls as he paces the same fifteen feet from the kitchen to the sitting room. "Think, think, think!"

His mantra stutters when Lestrade inadvertently steps into his path, mumbling on his mobile to someone. Another lead, dead.

Sherlock crashes down into his desk chair, driving his elbows into the wood, feet tapping a rapid staccato rhythm on the floor. His eyes flick around as he flips through invisible reams of evidence and interviews of recent cases, none of which give him the answer he needs.

Nothing can tell him where John is.

Lestrade turns toward him, placing his hands slowly onto his hips. It is a movement of resignation, of dread, that Sherlock notes absently. He doesn't need to hear it, too, but Lestrade sighs heavily, "Right, well, we've nothing else to go on. Last sighting of him was two blocks from here—security camera on the roof of the bank. Then, nothing. We've an alert out, but until we get some tips—"

Sherlock's laugh is slicing. "Of course you've got nothing. You've _always_ got nothing. Why do you even bother showing up for work? What is the _point_ of you?"

Lestrade's mouth forms a thin line. "We'll find him. We're doing everything we can."

Sherlock leaps to his feet. "Is that supposed to reassure me?" His hair is a wild, spiky mass hovering around his thin white face. The darkened circles around his eyes offset their red glare. He looks possessed. "He's been missing for three days. Three. Days. And this is the best you can do?" He grabs Lestade at the elbows and pushes his face into his, teeth barred. "In a crowded city in the twenty-first century, one cannot light a cigarette or skip a traffic signal without immediate repercussions, and yet there's not a single trace of a handsome man being abducted _right off the street_? Is that what you're telling me, Inspector? Is it?"

Greg stares a moment. In the years he's known the very unpredictable consulting detective, he could recall no time when he actually wondered if Sherlock would lose it, if he would snap and hurt someone, be the psychopath Sally has always claimed he is. But in this moment, there is an unstrung look to him, a sharp and dangerous venom that makes Lestrade stiffen his muscles and trace the butt of his firearm with his fingertips, preparing subconsciously to defend himself if necessary. It seems to reach Sherlock because his eyes flicker and he releases his grip abruptly, turning his back and leaning both palms on the desktop.

Lestrade licks his lips. After a moment, he offers, "John's a soldier, Sherlock. He can take care of himself."

There's a noisy exhale from the hunched figure. It sounds crackly, and if Lestrade didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock were fighting back tears. "I know how strong he is," he rasps. He is silent for a few beats, then the mass of curls dips lower. "But…it's _John_."

Greg blinked several times. He's interrogated hundreds of people over the years; he's confronted every form of human grief possible. He has heard the pain in voices that were straining to be brave, the fear and desperation that inevitably finds their way to the surface when the facade is shattered. He's seen people in love implode from the loss of the one person who matters most in the entire world.

He just never thought he'd hear it all in a small whisper from Sherlock Holmes.

There is silence for a long time. Lestrade is suspended, unsure what to do to. He considers walking over, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder, telling him everything will be all right. But he scratches his ear instead, imagining that if he tried, he'd end up on the floor with his arm twisted backward to his spine.

Suddenly, Sherlock deflates, falling into the desk chair with his face buried in his hands. "Do you know the last thing I said to him?" The voice is hollow, haunted. "I told him to go away. I was trying to finish an experiment, and he kept pestering me because he wanted to go to dinner, and I told him to go away and leave me alone." The fingers tighten against his temples, trembling with the force. "And he did."

Greg swallows hard. "Jesus, Sherlock," he mutters. Then, he runs a hand over his face and takes a fortifying breath. "You can't believe…You don't think John knows what an arsehole you are?" He forces a chuckle. "No way he'd leave for good and let you get the last word, you bastard."

It seems to help. The fingers wrapped around Sherlock's forehead loosen and pink up, blood permitted to flow once again.

Lestrade inches toward the door. "I'm going back to the office to check a couple of feeds, and then I'm going home. If you get a lead, don't go charging off on your own, for Christ's sake. Call me." Sherlock doesn't respond, and Greg takes his silence as the closest thing to an "Ok" as he'll ever get.

He shuffles out, but something stops him on the landing. "I know John," he calls back. "He's fine." He doesn't expect a response. The gap fills with his tired footfalls and a decisive slam of the front door.

The noise below makes Sherlock raise his head. The flat is eerily quiet. There is not even the swish and grind of traffic to distract him. He shifts backwards, head lolling against the chair back, eyes turned to the ceiling. He tries to maintain focus, to run through more folders of data, shifting to last month's cases, the ones from the month before that, and the month before that.

Nothing fits. Nothing makes sense.

His eyes slip closed and the darkness is replaced by a vision from a week ago. He and John had just returned from Birmingham, a forgery case that had kept them running for several days with no sleep. When they finally had gotten home in the wee hours of the morning, they had dragged themselves into the bedroom and collapsed fully clothed on top of the covers. Sherlock had peeked an eye open to see John watching him, a slow smile crossing his face. His arms had wrapped clumsily around him, and Sherlock had tilted his head up enough to reach his mouth. They had kissed slowly, easily, an instinctive movement of lips and tongues. It had been completely languid and warm and familiar. Exhaustion had been too overwhelming in the moment to go beyond that, but it didn't matter. It was perfect. It was everything.

Sherlock had awakened the next day to sunlight shafting through the sheer curtains of the window, John's arms slung around his neck, and his upper lip still held between both of John's. Every breath that he had taken throughout the night had filtered through John's lungs first. It had flooded him with an embarrassing amount of utterly ridiculous joy. It was as close to heaven as Sherlock ever thought he'd get.

Now, he clenches a fist and gulps a shuddering inhale. He tosses his head furiously and leaps out of the chair, stifling the tears he can feel at the edges of his eyes but refuses to shed. He wanders in circles, ending up at the window. The street is empty. He scans the rooftops and the blackness of the moonless night sky. Even the clouds have deserted him, leaving nothing to reflect the city's glow back to him.

His gut wrenches, and he places a shaky hand on the glass. "Where _are_ you?"


	2. Chapter 2

John's leg twitches, and the slosh of water jolts him awake. He groans, feeling the ice in his toes, limbs submerged to his ankles. His shoulder joints scream. Unending hours spent with his arms tied behind him have taken their toll. He tries to push up with his legs, but his feet barely scrape on the slick stone beneath them. From what he can feel, the rope binding his wrists is hooked to a metal rod in the wall.

John shakes himself to try to focus, but his head is throbbing too much to remember details about how he got here. He'd heard a scuffle in an alleyway and couldn't help the compulsion to investigate. A thick-necked man was kicking the tar our of some bloke huddled on the pavement, so John started down to break it up. He barely got half-way there when he was clubbed from behind. Time is a fog. He could have been here for hours or days.

 _As ever you see and do not observe, John._

"Shut up, Sherlock," he mutters. "I'm working on it."

He's blindfolded, but by scraping his head repeatedly against his bicep, he has been able to work the fabric up enough to see he's underground in the corner of a basement of some kind. Concrete surrounds him; the dank smell of mildew is overpowering, and there's a fishiness to it that makes him think he's somewhere near the river. There is a door on the far wall and a dim exposed bulb in front of it with a chain attached.

There's movement in the rooms above him. The wooden planks creak between the floor joists, muffled laughter, an occasional shout, pounding. At some point, he thinks he can hear someone crying.

Silence descends for a long while, and John starts to grow hazy and slip into unconsciousness again when door bursts open. He jerks, then inwardly curses himself for reacting.

A gravelly voice chuckles. "Hey, Hero, how you feeling?"

John can hear him stagger closer until he is inches from him. The stench of whiskey and body odor rolls off him in suffocating waves. "I like you, Hero," he slurs. "When we get done with the other one, I'm really going to enjoy getting to know you." He falls against John and licks his face with a fat slurp.

John tries to kick him in the groin, but his atrophied reflexes stifle his momentum. He can barely lift his leg, so he grits his teeth and hisses, "Fuck you."

The man laughs and grabs John around the throat. "Oh, maybe, Hero. Maybe." He shoves John's head back and leaves, ripping the chain on his way by, plunging the room into darkness.

 _It's a window, John. Hurry!_

John sighs, but the force of keeping the ache and nausea at bay makes it emerge as more of a stuttering whimper. "Okay, Sherlock, okay…I—I'm on it." He starts to work at the rope around his wrists, twisting and picking and needling. It is excruciating, and he is fairly certain that getting shot did not hurt more. He can feel a warm, oily slick under his fingertips and knows it is his own blood. Another twist, and he bites back a cry. "But…stay. Please, Sherlock. Can't do this…without you."

 _I'm here John._

For just a moment, he is sure he can smell Sherlock's after shave, feel his silken cheek against his, soft curls sweeping John's forehead. Then, a shrill scream shatters the momentary calm and an ominous thunk that makes his heart drop. Somehow he knows he does not have much time left.

His window is closing.

His mobile rings at dawn.

Sherlock's gut turns to ice. He knows it is Lestrade. He knows it is something bad.

"Meet me by the river. We've found something." He rattles off an address.

"What is it?"

There's a hesitation, then a sigh. "Just come. Now."

When Sherlock arrives, the scene is teeming with officers. High on the rocky bank is a heap covered with a yellow sheet. A body. His mouth runs dry. He sets his jaw, fighting for control, for his signature impassivity, but the hand that reaches out to lift the police tape trembles anyway.

Lestrade sees him at a distance and flags him down. His expression is grim. "Look, we've found a body."

"Obviously."

"He fits the description of a Henry Trammel from Dorchester, in town visiting relatives. He went missing the same day as John, so we're thinking there might be a connection."

"Why am I here, Lestrade?"

"I want you to take a look. If it _is_ related to what happened to John, I wanted you to have first crack at the evidence. I don't want anything to be missed."

Sherlock starts to move away, but Greg grabs his forearm. "Sherlock, I should warn you. The body is pretty…damaged."

Sherlock looks at him directly for the first time. The Inspector's face is drawn up on one side, almost a wince, and Sherlock knows Lestrade is trying to shield him from the possibilities of what this could mean for John. He opens his mouth for a curt reply, but he finds he has none. Not today. Instead, he clenches his fists behind his back and nods quietly.

He hovers over the body for a moment, then rips the sheet back and stands tall, walking in a slow circle around, cataloguing every detail. Bruises and contusions in varying shades of purple stand out on the backdrop of the victim's white skin. He's missing an eye, three fingers, and all of the fingernails from his right foot. There are odd swaths of scarlet along his back and thigh, and Sherlock has to lean closer to examine these: something has peeled off layers of skin.

 _I don't see a pattern, Sherlock._

"Quiet, John. I'm thinking."

A young patrolman nearby looks up, startled. Lestrade just shakes his head at him, then crosses his arms and waits.

Sherlock sees the gold strands of old carpet clinging to the man's shirt, the white goo of wet flour on the back of his head, the flat spots on the outside of his pinkies that screams office worker. He smells the latent mildew and greasy froth of cheap take-away food, though the man's teeth show he hasn't eaten in days.

The huge dent in the back of his skull shows how he died.

 _Blunt force trauma, but_ _something's off about this._

"You're right, John. I see it, too."

Lestrade can't help himself. "See what?"

Sherlock looks up sharply, as if he had forgotten the Inspector's presence entirely. He takes a deep breath, his measured voice characteristically flat, bored. "The victim's been tortured over days, but there is no method to the wounds. They are haphazard and of different depths, suggesting two perpetrators, amateurs. Sadists, spontaneous thrill crime. The wound that killed him is the blow to the back of the head, and its bled significantly here, but not as much as it should have, so he was killed elsewhere and dropped here, clearly, but it has to be somewhere nearby. They dumped him quickly when they were done, after abusing him with whatever was left in the kitchen, likely of a grandparent of one or both of the perpetrators. These are young men, using what was convenient—cheese grater, needle-nosed pliers, screwdriver. Not much imagination." He motions with his head to the gathering crowd outside the police barrier. "Start asking around. They'll have a long history of criminal acts, a reputation. Someone in the neighborhood will know who they are."

He sweeps his coat tighter and turns on his heel to leave. Lestrade calls after him. "Is that all?"

Sherlock freezes. He doesn't turn around. His voice is a whip. "No, it isn't. We have to hurry. John is next."

Lestrade calls to his men and they bleed into the crowd, beckoning to eager onlookers, flipping pages in their notepads. Sherlock looks down to the water and, robbed of the safety of an audience, feels his iron control waver. He's gripping his fists so tightly that his palms have started to bleed. It is the only way to keep himself from doubling over and vomiting all over the shore.

His eyes slip closed, and he exhales slowly through his nose. "You have to hang on, John," he whispers. "Without you, I'd—."

He cuts himself off. What can he say? He suddenly realizes that he really has no idea what he would do. _Without John._ The phrase is an unthinkable swallow of chalky poison. There is nothing without John.

Sherlock shudders involuntarily.

Stop.

 _Stop it._

There's no time for this.

He squares his shoulders and stills his mind: _I'm here John_.


	3. Chapter 3

The house seems to crouch on the edge of the lane, tilted drunkenly at the eaves as if it were resting on one knee, exhausted. At one time, it had been white, but had long ago given up that pretense of purity. The yard was a quagmire of weeds that had trapped every tumbling piece of garbage that had drifted through the neighborhood in the last decade. It created a protective moat, a buffer, as isolating as the crumbling concrete stoop and sagging rust of the chainlink fence. It seethed rot.

Thanks to efficient legwork (and a key informant of his homeless network), Sherlock was able to zero in on this location within hours. He assessed it minutely from a vantage point across the street, waiting for a sign, a reasonable degree of certainty that someone was inside. If he charged in on a whim with his gun drawn, it might put John in greater danger, and regardless of the desperate burning in his chest, that is not something he could bring himself to do. John's life is the one thing in the world he was unwilling to risk.

The knowledge that he was dealing with a random crime had chilled him to the bone. John's abductors were not brilliant adversaries by any means; there was no Moriarty-scale global take-over in the works. But it was their complete lack of planning and experience that made them dangerous. If they were not predictable, then they could not conform to a measurable pattern for Sherlock to break down to its last splinter. One cannot rationalize the irrational. This was a game he couldn't master, and Sherlock hated that with every cell of his body.

He scrapes at his forehead viciously, trying to physically wipe out the other thought lurking deep within his brain, the one that oozed down his throat and dredged bile up with it. It is the hideous idea of what he might find inside: John's broken body, a shell, tortured for amusement and discarded as if he were trash, as if he were not a war hero who deserved honor and respect, as if he were not a skilled doctor who had saved countless innocent lives.

As if John were not witty and solid and full of the most divine unconditional love that Sherlock Holmes had ever encountered in a human being.

And it would be Sherlock's fault. Too weak to help him at the moment that he'd needed Sherlock most, the man who had already saved Sherlock's life in every conceivable way, over and over again, would be lost to him forever.

He grinds his teeth and pulls out his mobile to click out a hasty text to Lestrade before circling in closer, surveying the windows and door in the back of the house. The windows are crusted and painted shut, but from the state of the vegetation, this is the primary entryway for the inhabitants, who (based on the dark fingerprints spotting the handrail) work with machinery of some—

A deafening crash freezes him like stone. It has come from inside the house. Before he can process any of it, there is a rapid succession of shouts, a waterfall of crashing objects and glass, and a soul-crushing scream that he would have known anywhere, through any din, at any distance: _John_.

Sherlock feels like he is running through waist-deep water. Time warps and his limbs seem heavy, numb. It could not have taken more than five seconds to cross the yard and leap the stairs, but in the chambers of his mind where John's scream echoes and gains force, nothing moves fast enough. He flings himself at the door. It is bolted, but it shudders under the force of his shoulder. One savage kick and it snaps open, slamming into the wall behind it, stuttering in its frame.

What greets him inside unhinges his jaw and sucks every bit of air from his lungs.

The door opens into the kitchen, a narrow hole of a room with peeling countertops of white formica and ill-fitting cupboards that overshadowed them awkwardly. Just feet from the door is a round wooden table, pitted and crusted with grime, three rickety chairs set around it. To the side of the table, wedged between it and the cupboards, a fat man lies face down on the floor, blood flowing from his nose. His arms are crossed behind him, tied together with a length of fabric that looks like it was once the kitchen's curtains.

Sitting in one of the chairs is John Watson.

Sherlock grasps the door frame to keep himself from falling to his knees. His lips move, forming John's name, but no sound comes out.

John's eyes are dark, both from the shock of Sherlock's entrance and from the fight he's just endured. He is deathly pale, making the ugly gash across his hairline stand out in relief. His shirt is ripped and his hands are covered in blood, and from the mangled state of his wrists and arms, it is his own. He is covered in sweat, hair matted wildly around his ears; it mingles with the blood, forming red streaks down his face that drip from his chin onto the table top.

Sirens wail in the background. Sherlock takes a shaky step forward and John's eyes swell. His eyebrows pinch together, his last bit of restraint to keep himself together. Sherlock can see his shoulders shaking from the sheer force of sitting upright.

"Jesus Christ!"

Lestrade appears in the doorway. His eyes dart around the room, and he holsters his weapon slowly. He slides around Sherlock's imposing frame, craning his neck to look at the lump on the floor. He raises his eyebrows at John. "What the hell happened to him?"

With effort, John drags his eyes from Sherlock's face. He pauses a beat and attempts a ghost of a smile. His voice is a dry rasp. "I'm used to…a better class of criminal."

Greg stares at him for a few seconds, then his face splits in a wide grin and he laughs. "Stupid bastard didn't know what he was getting into, right?" He motions to one of his officers outside who drags the man to his feet and shoves him out of the door. Greg takes in Sherlock's face as the man passes him and turns back to John. "I'm thinking he got off easy."

Medics push into the small space, working their way around to John. As they set up their gear, thumps sound from a distant part of the house, followed by muffled shouts. Greg looks to John. "What the—"

John tilts his head. "Other one…locked downstairs."

Greg grins, "Bloody hell!"

Lestrade hears Sherlock inhale audibly, more of a growl, and he steps quickly to the side to block the detective's movements. "No." Sherlock looks down at him, face hard and distant, eyes clouded with the same murderous glint that he'd seen in them before, but Greg holds his ground. "I've got this."

There's a whisper from the other side of the table. "Sherlock, please…stay…"

Sherlock's jaw twitches, and Lestrade watches as John's words process in Sherlock's mind and filter into his muscles, returning them from concrete to flesh. His shoulders drop almost imperceptibly. He blinks once, and in doing so, its as if he's pulled back a shade; Greg catches just a glimpse of the real man inside, the terror that must have governed all of Sherlock's behavior, the huge heart that he keeps protected under the layers of crusty disdain. Then, the veil returns. Without a word, Sherlock steps back to his spot in the corner, and Greg disappears from the room.

* * *

At the hospital, Sherlock watches John from behind glass. He's been relegated to the central desk in the emergency department at the insistence of the chief attending so the doctor could talk to John without fear—of interruption or of bodily harm. John's arms and ribs have been bandaged, and the wound in his head required stitches; he's hooked to an intravenous machine, receiving his second bag of fluids. He is still clearly in pain and exhausted, but some color has started to return to his cheeks.

As the doctor talks to him, John tries to inch up higher in the bed. He nods to the other man several times, then asks him a question that Sherlock cannot read on his lips. Whatever the doctor has said makes John shake his head decisively, mouth set in a line.

Lestrade appears at the desk. "John seems all right, yeah?" When Sherlock doesn't answer, he continues, "Said he got caught up in a crime in progress. Tried to help the first victim, ended up the bonus grab."

"Evidently."

"Told you he could take care of himself." Lestrade buzzes a hand through his hair. "But hanging there for days and still managing to bust himself out? That's damn impressive."

John looks up and catches Sherlock's eye. He gives him a faint smile and a wink, and Sherlock feels his chest clench. John is the one who has been abused, pushed to his absolute physical limits, but even now, his instinct is not to indulge himself, but to try to reach out, to soothe Sherlock's worry. Sherlock's arms tingle with the need to wrap themselves around him.

The doctor finally emerges and approaches Sherlock with slow caution. Lestrade's presence seems to offer some assurance, however, so he makes his way over and drops his metal clipboard on the counter. He starts to drone the details John's condition, addressing most of his commentary to Lestrade. Sherlock listens vaguely, watching as John nods a polite thanks to the orderly who'd brought him ice water and sags back against the pillow, wincing.

"Fine," Sherlock interrupts him.

The doctor blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

At this point, there is only one thing Sherlock wants to know: "When can I take him home?"

The physician blanches, adjusting the glasses on his face. "Normally, I would say forty-eight hours, but Dr. Watson has refused admission. We can't force him."

Sherlock's lips quirk. "You'd be wise not to try."

He raises his nose in the air. "Another hour or so and his IVs should be complete. In my considered opinion, however, there is…"

Sherlock brushes past him, returning to John's side.

* * *

They mount the steps at Baker Street one at a time, Sherlock behind with a solid hand to John's back. He calls to Mrs. Hudson for tea, and her, "Happy to, dear!" is positively effervescent. John sways precipitously at the top of the stairs, and Sherlock holds him up with one arm while removing his coat with the other and tossing it onto the sofa. He steers John down the hall to the bedroom. "Almost there," he encourages.

John slumps on the edge of the bed, as much as two cracked ribs will allow, eyes closed from the effort of the journey. Sherlock kneels before him, untying and slipping off his shoes. He leans closer to undo the buttons of John's shirt, and John relaxes forward, burying his face in the crux of Sherlock's neck. "Sure missed you."

Sherlock feels the knot inside him starting to unravel. It has kept him in check, kept him from raving and blubbering like an utter fool while outside the flat. But John's here now. They're back home— _their_ home—and he can feel John's lips against his skin and smell his hair and watch the steady thud of his pulse. He tries to choke down the tangle of emotion rising in his throat—John still needs his help—but he cannot squelch the stuttering sigh or the quiet stream of tears that seeps unchecked from the corners of his eyes. He moves an arm around John, supporting his weight and bringing him closer. His other hand grips the nape of his neck, massaging, stroking the fringe of his hair, his cheek.

He presses his forehead to John's, eyes squeezed shut, and tries to tell him of the agony of his absence, of the black hole that would devour Sherlock's whole world if he had lost him, how nothing fits, nothing works, without John in his life. But all that comes out is a strangled, " _John!_ "

It's enough. He feels John's head nod against him, senses the moisture from his tears seeping into the collar of Sherlock's shirt and blending with that of his own. "I know." John pulls him into the circle of his legs, pressing Sherlock even tighter against him with gentle pressure from his heels.

John raises a bandaged hand to Sherlock's cheek, tracing it with his fingertips. He kisses his mouth softly, gently, and it reminds Sherlock again of that night back from Birmingham. Sherlock makes a noise at the back of his throat that could have been desire or gratitude or relief. He cups John's cheek and lets the tenderness of his lips and tongue bring him fully back to life.

Eventually, they hear a click on the stairs and Mrs. Hudson's signature, "Woo hoo!" at the door. There's a clinking noise, then she calls, "I'll just leave the tea here, boys. Get it when you're ready." The steps creak as she retreats.

John chuckles against Sherlock's mouth, "Mrs. H. is on her game, I see."

Sherlock smiles, "Indeed." Reluctantly, he leans back, "Let's get you comfortable, and then I can feed you up properly."

It is quite an operation, given his injuries, but they work together to get John out of his tattered clothes, into his sleepwear, and set up against the headboard on a mountain of pillows. Sherlock slips out for a few minutes, returning with Mrs. Hudson's tray of tea and biscuits and a hastily constructed cheese sandwich. He sets it on the nightstand, positioning the plates of food at John's elbow, then pours out their tea. Sherlock sits nimbly on the edge of the bed by John's knee, and they sip and crunch in congenial silence.

John sniffs at his armpit as he raises his cup to his mouth, wrinkling his nose. "I am disgusting."

Sherlock clucks, "You're nothing of the kind."

John gives a lopsided smile. "Glad you think so since I can't shower for two days." He gestures to his various bandages.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I could always give you a sponge bath, you know."

He bites his lip. "Well, now, there's a tempting offer."

"Guaranteed to make you feel clean and _so dirty_ , all at the same time."

John laughs, full and genuine, face engulfed by his broad smile. It is one of the best sounds that Sherlock Holmes has heard in his entire life. He gazes at John with unrestrained affection, aware that there's not a lot he wouldn't do to make that smile last.

John looks at him thoughtfully, then sets his tea aside. He reaches out for Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock immediately entwines their fingers together. John studies their linked hands, quiet for a moment; when he looks up, his face is serious. "You were there with me, you know."

Sherlock tilts his head. "How do you mean?"

"In that house, all that time. I talked to you, and I swore I could hear you talk back. It was like you were there, and it kept me going. I couldn't have…lasted otherwise. Not without you."

Sherlock nods soberly. "I understand. You are always the voice in my head, keeping me right."

John's eyebrows go up, surprised. He tugs on Sherlock's hand, drawing Sherlock up close to him. "It really makes me wonder," he murmurs.

"About?"

"How we ever got on alone, all those years before."

A slow smile settles on Sherlocks mouth, his voice low. "There was no before. There's only right now."

He rises and rounds to the other side of the bed, stretching to his full length and easing John down to lay against his chest. He strokes John's hair as he drifts off, feeling his body relax in increments. The force of his heart pumping moves John's frame subtly up and down, and Sherlock realizes there could be no better representation of who they are, the engine of his internal world moving in time with the external reason that the engine even bothers to beat. He plants a soft kiss to John's crown and closes his eyes, sleep overwhelming them both in minutes.


End file.
